Calne Ca: The Heart of a Monster
by Absoltheharbinger
Summary: A sneak-peek into the mind of everyone's favourite Vocaloid nightmare fuel. Adapted slightly from Deino's original design. Rated T for language, violence and minor adult themes. One-shot.


**This is my first upload. Yay!**

**I do not claim to own Calne Ca, Vocaloid, Hatsune Miku, the Kagamine twins, Guitar Hero, or anything else mentioned within this fanfic. Rated T for language, violence and minor adult themes**

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><p>Don't bother giving me your pity. I don't need it.<p>

There was a time when I was like you; human. I can't remember it now. I could have been a winner, or a grinner, a lover, or a sinner. A gypsy, a tramp or a thief. And I wouldn't even know. But I know the truth. You're all scared of me. The weird one. The _wrong_ one. I don't care anymore. A wise woman once told me that beauty was only skin deep.

What a fucking lie that was.

Don't get me wrong; maybe I used to be such a sweet, sweet thing. That was until _they_ got a hold of me. Don't pretend you don't know who I'm talking about. The producers, the executives. The Company. They ruined us all, but you're all too trapped in your stupid heads to realise it.

I suppose I'd better explain my story from the start. I was meant to be some kind of big-sister-figure for that teal bitch. You know; the pretty one. The one who prances around like she owns the fucking place. The one with a sweet little voice, churning out her blissful legatos and heart-shaking fortes.

She makes me feel so fucking sick.

I was birthed prem. Too prem. A-couple-of-months-grade prem. They couldn't finish me. But they did their best. Yeah, _did their best_. My sides are fucking splitting. If this was meant to be a joke, it wasn't funny. If it wasn't, even less so. I'm a broken doll.

I mean, look at me. My flesh is only half-formed; skin as pale as Death's horse cracked and splintered just off my shoulder on my left, no shoulder on my right. My left are is black gunmetal to the elbow, then a warped bone forearm and three-fingered claw of a hand. My right is all metal, the hand just a collection of fifteen-inch blades arranged like those of a Swiss Army knife. My legs are backwards, metal and twisted. I don't even have proper feet, just these awkward hooves and blade spurs. My fragile, frozen torso looks just like my 'little sister's', but older and more … shapely. Slightly.

Look at my face. Would paint a portrait of me? Some Madonna in a Renaissance painting, or a Juliet in a Shakespearean play? Even a Cinderella in a kid's fucking picture book would keep me happy. But with my face? Laugh my fucking ass off. Actually, better not; It's one of the few things that keeps me looking somewhat normal. My neck is too long, my face too narrow. Hair like dead, dry seaweed. My eye the colour of mineral turquoise, all wide and innocent. Too bad my other eye is an unblinking red lens, glowing like a cold star. It makes me look shocked, as though I never got over what happened to me. Heh, maybe it's true. My cheekbones are high and prominent, looking either elfin or skeletal. I don't have a lower jaw. All I have is four steel, finger-like mandibles, that click as I speak. I don't even have lips that some oni or blind maiden could kiss; a kiss from me mouth would probably look like I was ready to chew your face off like some horror from a cheap psycho-thriller. I guess that's all I am now; some freak-show from a cheap movie.

What was that? _You_ would kiss me? Yeah fucking right. You're trying to make me feel better about this fucking hell we so happily call a life.

Back to my story. I realised what I was soon enough. My rage … you couldn't begin to imagine. I know that, at that moment, I hated everyone and everything I saw. Why do I have to be broken when everything else is perfect? My claws tracing crimson arcs of life from those who I met. The last thing they would remember was the potato-head in wonderland advancing on them like judgement itself. I remember the children, the girl screaming and crying into her brother's shoulder, him like some big damn hero protecting her from the dragon. I would have struck them down with all my hate. My garnet scythes were raised.

"Stop it, onee-chan!" I'll never forget that voice scream behind me. I turned. I will _never_ be that girl's _onee-chan_. But she had the security with her. I would never be able to take them all. But there is no way I'd let them uninstall me.

It was a massacre. If there weren't any reinforcements, I could have killed all of those fucking pigs. But they didn't uninstall me. You know that; otherwise we wouldn't be talking. They lock me in a top-security cell all day. I wasn't even allowed to keep my clothes. They probably thought I would try to strangle myself with them, or something. You all assume I'm safe in this room. To those that knew me, I am uninstalled. To all of the others, I am a myth; the monster under the bed that's never really there.

How fucking wrong they were.

I am the phantom of the night, the ghost in the system. I stalk the corridors and hallways of this facility by night. When the others are in bed, I could be right outside your room, corrupting your dreams. Why shouldn't I? _I_ can't dream. It's amazing how much you can't do when you have to pay for another's incompetence.

I can't sing with this horrible, distorted, grating voice. I can't dance. I can't play any kind of instrument. I can't play any kind of video game that requires more than two fingers and a thumb. I can't write. I've read most of the facility library. I've watched most of your anime collection, too. Thanks to the curfew, I can't see any of you lot either. What's the fucking use of letting me out of my cage if I can't fucking do anything with the time? I've already made top of the leaderboard in every song on Guitar Hero. You try doing that when you have to play with your mouth.

So why do you approach me? I'm a monster, a freak, a _mistake_. I hate you. I hate all of you. And I especially hate Hatsune fucking Miku.

You want to help? Then uninstall me.


End file.
